William's Prophecy
by Sweet N Low
Summary: Updated (chp. 4)! Season 4/5 AU fic - Buffy runs Spike out of town after the Adam debacle ... but when she finds out that Spike may play a part in a major prophecy, how far will she go to get him back? Spuffy eventually? Feedback desired!
1. Get out, get out, get out!

Disclaimers: None of this belongs to me.  
  
Feedback: Yes, please.  
  
Author's Note: This fic is an AU and takes place at the end of season 4 going into season 5 ... it's kind of an AU where Buffy decides that she's sick of Spike and she ... okay, well, that's going a little far, don't want to give it all away.  
  
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =  
  
The hurried footsteps echoed through the alleyway as the heavy boots lifted and dropped with inhuman speed, powerful legs pumping swiftly as the vampire hurried along the cement path. To mortals he passed by, he was merely a blur, a flash of black leather and platinum blonde to their untrained eyes. To other creatures of the night, he was one of their own, a powerful predator to be feared. Tonight, however, he was the hunted.  
  
Spike dashed past the buildings, shoving people from his path, his chest tight from overexertion. As one of the undead, he didn't have to breathe and wasn't tired out easily; this night, however, was an exception. He panted in a heedless attempt to catch his second wind, as he ducked into a building's overhang, doubling over in pain and clutching his stomach. Inhaling deeply, he was surprised to find spit laced with blood - his blood - filling his mouth. He spit it out with disgust, wincing when he attempted to stand up again. Prodding a wound on his chest gingerly, he pulled his fingers away and saw that they were covered with a sticky red substance.  
  
'More blood,' he thought, 'Never thought I'd be so sick of seeing the stuff.'  
  
His head swiveled quickly to the right when he heard someone approaching hurridly; someone as swift and agile on their feet as he was.  
  
The Slayer.  
  
Spike straightened up despite the numbing pain lodged deep in his breast, dashing for the steel ladder attached to an apartment complex next to him. If he could get up onto the roof, he figured, he could lose her. No such luck.  
  
As soon as his feet hit the first rung, two small hands were grabbing onto his ankles, hauling him back to the ground below. He shook his legs, attempting to throw her off balance, but she just tightened her grip, bruising his bones and causing him to yelp in pain. He let go of the ladder for a moment to stop her, forgetting his current situation, and toppled on his backside to the dirty pavement below.  
  
'Dammit.'  
  
His eyes widened as the petite blonde Slayer raised a stake in her hand, ready to thrust it into his chest and end his miserable existence. He was tempted to let her, for a moment; the hardships of the past year's occurances weighing him down, crushing his spirit. Instinct kicked in, however, and he leapt to his feet to escape the blow. His knees buckled and Spike let out a small wimper of pain when he realized that he was worse off than he first believed; his ankles were broken. He fell back to the ground, humiliated, unable to bear the weight on two broken bones.  
  
She smirked at him, enjoying having her enemy in such a vulnerable postion, totally at her mercy. Buffy moved towards him skillfully, ready to levy a lethal blow, when he pulled his body away with his hands, crying out.  
  
"Buffy, let's be rational here!"  
  
Dropping her hands to her hips, one eyebrow arched in a disbeliving manner. "Rational?" She paced around his fallen form angrily. "Tell me, Spike, what was your rationale when you were selling me out to Adam? Now, I know that I was stupid to not stake your sorry ass when I had the chance, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Then you go out and try and get me and my friends all killed, despite all of the help we gave you! What excuse do you have for yourself?"  
  
His mind raced for an excuse, before he finally settled for the truth. "I don't."  
  
Buffy's eyes widened in surprise; she was expecting the usual lame answers he had always given her.  
  
"You just . . . it's hard being a vampire that can't attack anybody, can't bite any humans. I've gotta find a way to get my kicks, and . . . okay, so it probably wasn't the best idea to try and kill you, I'll be the first one to admit. But I've got to find some way to pass my time!"  
  
She rolled her eyes the way she usually did, but he continued: "What those Initiative gits did to me . . . staking I'm fine with, it's over quick and the like, but the chip, that bloody chip . . . it's like pulling the wings off a soddin' butterfly!"  
  
His speech finished, he looked up into her eyes, hoping to see a spark of pity. Buffy snorted without a trace of humour. "Spike, it's like pulling the wings off an evil, man-eating butterfly." She stood over him in an intimidating manner, her face deadly serious. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't stake you right now and do the world a favor."  
  
"I'm harmless," he answered quickly, before she changed her mind and killed him outright, "I can't bite a soul."  
  
"You can still try and do me harm," she said, sounding nonplussed, "You proved that with your little Adam scheme."  
  
"I'll leave town," he blurted out, his unbeating heart leaping to his throat, "I'll leave and never come back. You'll never hear of me again!"  
  
Buffy paused, considering this for a moment, before lowering her defensive position. "Fine," she said finally, "Leave town. For good this time," she added for emphasis, "Because if I ever see your sorry face again, or you ever try to harm me or my loved ones again, I'm going to stake you. No excuses."  
  
= = = = = = = = =  
  
TBC . . . 


	2. California Dreamin'

Two months later . . .  
  
A wicked smile played on his full lips, as he turned onto his back and pulled the thin blankets over his nude, willowy form, his thoughts drifting in and out of conciousness. A cool stream of air brushed over his stomach and his eyes flew open, and he sat up, groaning. He had not wanted to be woken, he had not had a chance to finish the dream he had been having. The same dream he had been having for the past four weeks, the one he could not finish, no matter how hard he tried, or how strong he willed it. All he knew was that it was important, somehow, he felt that in the back of his mind. Spike almost never had reaccuring dreams, the last time he could remember having one was the night before he had been turned. He had been dreaming about a dark-haired woman, thin, frail, and dangerous; Drusilla. She was chasing him down a road, he remembered, but he found he could not walk, could not tear his eyes from her gaze. She laughed intoxicatingly, drawing him to her, making him weak, pale, like her, and he could see the blood flowing. When he had awoken from the nightmare, he couldn't sleep the rest of the night. The familiar saying of 'I'll rest when I'm dead' filled his mind, and he chuckled wryly.  
  
The dream he was having now, while similarly prophetic, seemed very different, at least the beginning was. As far as he could tell, he was in no immediate danger . . . and every time he awoke from that dream, a warm, soothing feeling washed over him. Spike racked his brain, attempting to make out the details of that night's encounter, to fill in more peices of the puzzle.  
  
He was with a woman.  
  
She was thin yet muscular, like his Drusilla had been, but she had a more . . . child-like quality about her. They were in the dark, and they were fighting, hand-to-hand combat. She moved with grace and skill, was light on her feet . . . but he got the upperhand. He would knock her to the ground, moving in for the death blow, and then . . . stop. She would smile, he knew, although he couldn't see her face.  
  
"Are you ready for this, William?" She would ask in a cryptic manner, and thunder could be heard overhead. He remembered that part vividly, because for the first few nights, it had startled him so badly that he had awoken, ending the dream.  
  
"I'm always ready," he replied, getting to his feet and helping her up. He lead her into an unmarked building, and all of the sudden they were back in Victorian England. Spike was dressed as he was the night he died, and she was dressed in old, high-fashion garb. He was in gameface, for some reason, taking her hand and bringing down a familiar street . . .  
  
When he had first dreamed it, he wasn't sure where it was. Then the memories came flooding back . . . he had brought her to where he had died, where Drusilla had taken his life. The smell of damp hay would pervade his senses, and she would lay on the ground, not minding getting mud on her fancy dress. She would pull him down with her, kissing him hard, and he would worry, in a rather human way, hoping that no one would see them.  
  
"Don't you want this?" The faceless woman with the candy lips would ask, and Spike would nod numbly.  
  
"Yes. God, yes." He would reply in a similar fashion as he had to Drusilla the night he died, hoping only to please the mystery girl.  
  
He would open his eyes once more and he was back at the party, the last party he had ever attended before his passing. He was then speaking to Cecily, who was studying his face in an intimate manner that made him blush. "You are missing the party," she would state, worry written all over her face.  
  
Spike would push his glasses up in a William-esque manner, twitching nervously. "We are already at the party," he would reply, but she would shush him with a slim finger placed over his lips.  
  
"Not this party, dear boy, the real party. You're missing the fun."  
  
"I thought you were going to help." His eyes would open and he was Spike again, once more sparring with the faceless woman.  
  
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he would wonder, but she would silence him with another kiss. The skies let out a fierce rumble and he would look up, never leaving her embrace . . . and would watch as the clouds began to part.  
  
That was when he would wake up.  
  
It was frustrating, to say the least, and he was desperate to finish the story, to figure out what it meant if, indeed, it meant anything. With a weary gaze he noted the sunlight streaming in from outside, a bright beam worming it's way underneath the crypt's door. He sighed, burying himself deeper into the covers. Maybe, if he worked really hard, he could finish the damn thing, once and for all.  
  
= = = = = = = = = = = =  
  
Buffy groaned, tossing and turning in her bed. The alarm next to her went off, beeping in her ear shrilly. Her fingers fumbled for the snooze button, but when she couldn't find it, she simply picked the thing up and threw it against the wall.  
  
"How'd you sleep?" Willow asked from the bed next to her, awoken by the loud crash of the plastic timer hitting the dorm wall.  
  
Buffy sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her bloodshot eyes. "Not very good," she replied, "I'm starting to worry, Will."  
  
"Why?" Her friend asked, nervously.  
  
"I had that dream again."  
  
= = = = = = = = = = = =  
  
TBC . . . 


	3. Prophecies are Bad

Willow yawned deeply and arched her back off the mattress, reminding Buffy of a cat she had owned for two weeks when she was five. Buffy rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with her curled fists in a childlike manner, sitting up reluctantly and surveying the room with half-closed eyes. Buffy let out a loud yawn and scowled at her friend from across the room.  
  
"Damn you and your contagious yawns," she scolded Willow.  
  
Willow's bright eyes flicked over towards her, and she grinned innocently. "Hey, it's not my fault, I just opened my mouth and -poof- there it was. Besides, I think it's unhealthy to keep those things in."  
  
"This coming from the resident health expert," Buffy said with humour, pulling the comforter closer to her nightgown-clad body.  
  
After a few minutes of sitting in her bed with the covers raised to her neck, Willow spoke up. "I think we should probably get up."  
  
Buffy gave a small high-pitched girlish whine. "But it's Saturday," she moaned, pulling the sheets over her head, "It's too early to get up and I - I didn't sleep well and I think I'm coming down with something."  
  
Willow gave a small snort. "I'm totally up with the bad sleep excuse, but Buffy, it's nearly noon." She paused and glanced over at the mess of springs and plastic on the floor. "If that alarm is any indication. Or, ex-alarm, rather."  
  
Snuggling into her matress even harder, Buffy wished that she could just sink into the foam and springs and forget all about her troubles. Unfortunately for her, the dreams that had been plaguing her for the past few weeks would probably follow her to the ends of the earth, determined to get the point -whatever that point was- across to her. 'Damn dreams,' she thought, 'Damn prophetic Slayerness.'  
  
"Buffy," Willow chided softly, and the Slayer pulled the covers back down, wincing at sudden flood of light greeting her eyes.  
  
"Okay, okay, I'm getting up. See?" she said, pulling one leg from out of the bed and placing the foot gingerly on the floor.  
  
"I meant up as in the general sense of up-ness. You know, usually involving getting out of bed?"  
  
She groaned again, sincerely wishing that she was back at her Mom's house, where her only roommate was a bratty teenage sister that slept longer than she did. "You go, Willow," she said, sighing, "This doesn't really feel like and up kinda day."  
  
"Well then it's a down kinda day," Willow pressed, "Meaning get your bad self, uh, down," she finished embarrassedly, "and outta bed."  
  
"It's not a down kinda day, either," Buffy answered, "It's a 'comatose lie in bed all afternoon' kinda day. Besides, what would I do, besides tell Giles that I keep having the same boring nightmare? You can do that just fine . . . and you'd probably put it in better words, too."  
  
"Fine then, don't get up. Let Riley fall for some other rough-and-tumble commando cutie. Just say I didn't warn you . . ." Willow ended with a grin.  
  
Buffy rolled her eyes, shoving the sheets off the bed and dropping to her feet. "I've got no choice, do I?" she asked.  
  
Willow smiled, mimicking her friend's actions. "Nope."  
  
Both girls began to dress, choosing their clothing for the day carefully, wanting to look their best for their current romantic interests. Buffy found her mind wandering, and she couldn't help but bring her thoughts back to the dream that she had had the previous night. It felt like a Slayer dream, prophecies and all, but . . . more important, in a sense. She was positive that it must be, for she had been dreaming the same events over and over for weeks. 'Apocolypse big?' she wondered, frowning.  
  
Yes, it was a prophecy, no doubt, but what kind? Whatever the dream meant, Spike was definitely involved . . . and that was never a good sign.  
  
'Maybe it's an apocolypse, after all . . .'  
  
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =  
  
TBC . . . 


	4. Sleepless in Sunnydale

Buffy sat slumped over the books scattered on the Magic Box's table, her head resting firmly on her open palm, watching Giles clean his glasses. 'I wonder how many times he's polished those things?' she thought 'It's a wonder that they've lasted so long . . . you'd think the glass would break under the pressure, or fall out or something.' A sudden thought suddenly struck her, and she felt as if a cartoon lightbulb over her head had just flashed on. 'Maybe those aren't the same glasses!' She studied the spectacles carefully, eyeing the frames warily. 'Did they have those little gold thingies on the rim before?' Suddenly a picture flashed in Buffy's mind of Giles polishing his glasses until the frames snapped, and he would exclaim: "Oh, dear!" in a stuffy, ex-librarian way. Then he would just open a secret drawer hidden out of sight and toss them in with the other dozen-or-so pair he would undoubtedly have destroyed over the years, and open another hidden panel filled with new, unbroken glasses. The thought made her give a small snort of laughter, and Giles turned his eyes to her with a questioning gaze. She smiled weakly, picking up one of the books in front of her and pretended to scan the pages.  
  
"Mmm hmm," she murmured, watching Giles stare at her from the corner of her eye, "This all makes sense, now."  
  
Giles raised an amused eyebrow. "I wasn't aware you spoke Latin."  
  
Buffy glanced down at the words in front of her printed in an unfamiliar tongue, and felt a rosy blush creep up her face. She closed the book she was holding slowly, setting it back on the table with a sheepish grin. Giles shook his head and muttered something about 'Irresponsible juviniles' and continued his polishing. Buffy yawned for the thirtieth time that afternoon and stood up, raising her sore arms over her head.  
  
'Yep, definitely lacking in the sleep department,' she thought, walking over to the various magical items stacked on the shelves, 'When you're starting to spend half an hour thinking about Giles' glasses, it's definitely time to consider sleeping pills. That or professional help.'  
  
Glancing at a small, black figurine of - something - in front of her, she picked it up gently, studying it, tracing the slight lines and curves of the ornate carvings with her index finger. She was startled from her thoughts when Anya rushed up from behind the counter, shouting at the top of her lungs, "Don't touch that!"  
  
Buffy dropped it back into place, turning to Anya with a bemused look on her face. "Let me guess, it's really, really expensive? Or does it just turn me into a purple goo?"  
  
Anya pushed her aside and steadied the figurine on the shelf, positioning it until she thought it was perfect. "Both, actually," she replied, finally, her face filled with concern, "And it turns you into *red* goo, not purple." Anya spoke to Buffy as if she were a five year old child that needed everything explained to her, which always managed to frustrate the Slayer. "Your blood is red, the goo would naturally be the same color. It's a commonly known fact."  
  
She turned back to the figurine, studying it quietly. "Besides," she added, "A steaming pile of human remains on the floor would hardly be good for business. Unless you're into that sort of thing," she pondered.  
  
"Are you sure that item should be in public view?" Giles asked.  
  
"Well if it's not in their view, they can't see it, meaning that they won't buy it," Anya explained, frustrated.  
  
"Would you really want the person that wants to buy a person-goo maker thing in the Magic Box?" Willow asked.  
  
"It depends . . . would he have money?"  
  
The bell on the shop's door tinkled as a nervous customer, having heard the conversation taking place, fled the shop quickly. Anya glanced over at Buffy with a furious glare. "You made a customer leave! You made their money go away!"  
  
The ex-demon ran to the door, opening it and yelling at the rapidly retreating woman: "Have a nice day! Come again soon!" She turned on her heels angrily, glaring at her friends. "Now she's never going to come back . . . she'll probably tell all of the people she knows that at the Magic Box we turn our customers into gelatin!" Flouncing over to the cash register in a huff, Xander left his seat and held Anya in his arms, comforting the distraught ex-demon.  
  
Giles returned his glasses to his face and got up from his chair, making his way over to the black figurine Buffy had been fingering. Picking it up gently, he went to the storage room and placed in on a high shelf, away from the customer's sight. When he returned, Giles was holding a notepad in his hand, and Buffy could see various things scribbled down on it, although she couldn't read the exact words.  
  
"Buffy," he said, causing her to shift her gaze to him, "I'm grateful for all of the information that you have provided for me so far, but . . . I need more *details*. Something specific in your dream that could help me search for . . . whatever it is I'm looking for. A prophecy of some sort, most likely . . . but what information you have given me is only . . . sketchy, at best."  
  
"I'm sorry," Buffy apologized, feeling a bit guilty at not being able to provide a more accurate description, "But it's kind of hard to remember. The rundown is: There's a girl. Some faceless fighter that's sparring with Spike, and then, for some reason they kiss, and then they're in this funky timewarp thing. He's leading her down a street dressed in this horrible tweed thing" she eyed his outfit, blushing, "not that there's anything wrong with tweed . . . and these glasses. The whole thing is totally un- Spike like. Then they lay on the ground and start up with the smoochies, and bam! we're in a totally different place. Not modern day, I think, because Spike's still looking like the biggest loser in Loserville . . . and he's talking to some other woman who's dressed up all Victorian-ish, too." Buffy sighed; taking a seat at the table where she had previously been seated in front of, resting her tired eyes for a moment. "She's talking to him about some party," she continued, "'Why aren't you at the party?' or something like that. Then it's back to the first area, fighting with the other girl, more kissing, and the ground starts the rumble, like an earthquake or something, and the sky parts. That's all I can remember so far . . . and it doesn't make any sense. I don't think that's all there is to it . . . but it's really getting frustrating having the same damn thing in your head night after night. I'm starting to miss those dreams I used to have where I went to school but forgot to wear pants. Humiliating? Yes. Mundane? No."  
  
"And that's *all* you can remember?" Giles asked, exasperated.  
  
"Yeah . . . wait, I'm remembering something . . . there was hay! There was definite hay," Buffy paused, considering this, "Maybe we're going to be attacked by some giant hay monster of doom," she joked.  
  
"That's enough!" Giles said, his voice angry, "I will not have any more of your - your shenanigans! It's high time that we buckle down and figure out what this prophecy is and what we're going to do about it!"  
  
Buffy watched him breathe heavily, taking his glasses off and polishing them with the hem of his shirt furiously. "My God, Giles. Did you just say 'shenanigans'?" she asked, her voice tinged with laughter.  
  
"I do believe I did," he answered, "I'm sorry for that outburst, it's just that this is starting to feel like some sort of maze, and I'm the rat trying to find the cheese. Or prophecy, in this case. In actuality, I'm starting to think that no such thing exists."  
  
"Yeah, I hate it when the world treats you like a small rodent," Buffy joked, "But in all honesty, Giles, these dreams have to mean *something*. It's not like it's every day - or month, for that matter - that I dream about Spike. I can't stand the guy; I ran him out of town for a reason."  
  
"I very well wish you hadn't," Giles said, "If he does play a major part in this prophecy of yours, as the dreams suggest, then he would be a great deal of help to have around."  
  
"You think he might know something?" Buffy wondered aloud.  
  
"I wouldn't doubt it," he replied, "In any case, we would need to keep him under safeguard just in case he is planning some sort of apocalypse and, uh, prevent it from occuring. However much I hate to say it, Buffy, we need Spike back . . . if only for the good of humanity."  
  
Buffy sighed, resting her head on her open palm, as she had been earlier. 'Could this day get any worse?' she wondered. "So we need to find Spike," she said, "the only problem is - where do we look?"  
  
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =  
  
He glanced down at the business card in his hand and sighed, taking a long draw on his cigarette. Blowing lazy smoke rings, Spike stubbed the cigarette with one scuffed boot and headed across the street towards the large, foreboding building.  
  
To most others, the business wouldn't have been intimidating in the slightest; it was merely a large, old building, the paint peeling from age. In Spike's opinion, however, it signaled his descent into madness. Anyone in his situation would have to be insane to come there in the first place, no doubt about it.  
  
He couldn't help it, though; he had nowhere else to turn. He couldn't go to the Scooby gang for help with his troubles . . . Buffy had threatened to stake him if he ever showed his face in Sunnydale again. Spike had decided that he'd rather live with the dreams than live as a big pile of dust. But he had to do something . . . at first, the dream hadn't seemed so bad . . . just your average, run-of-the-mill prophecy. He had learned to cope with having the same bloody images running through his mind all day, though it would be enough to drive a man insane. Or a vampire, in his case.  
  
What had driven him to lower himself to this level had been a particularly nasty time he had had three nights before while sleeping. Spike had awoken from the same dream to discover that he had been sleepwalking, which wouldn't have bothered him so much if it hadn't been for the fact that he opened the crypt door and was stading halfway outside. Halfway into the blistering sun.  
  
Spike wasn't really sure what caused him to wake up, be it the pain of his skin sizzling or the smell of the burning flesh greeting his nostrils, but he awoke with a start. Having never sleepwalked before in his lifetime, he was almost 100% positive that it was tied with the dream. So he waited the next day, slept for a good hour or so, before he found himself out in the sun again. Whatever his unconcious mind was so eager for him to see, his body tended to dislike the idea of being burnt to death by UV rays, and he rushed back inside, unable to sleep the rest of the night.  
  
He had gone two days without sleep, so far, and he knew that he could go much longer if necessary. The problem was, he liked his sleep, uninterrupted and unadulterated. Spike also found out that, when he went too long without it, he became slow on his feet; the previous night, a Gaknar demon had gotten the better of him and had nearly snapped his head off. A mistake that deadly is rarely made twice.  
  
So he found himself poised outside the hotel door, ready to suck up his pride and ask for help in the last place he wanted it. Pushing the handle on the large wooden door, he entered the room with his head bowed, cringing at the familiar, perky voice that greeted him.  
  
"Welcome to Angel Investigations, where we help the helpless!"  
  
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =  
  
TBC . . . 


End file.
